Frank Tuttle's Blog, page 29
January 4, 2012
Three Resolutions
I made three resolutions for the new year.
First, I resolved to never stick my head in a fan again, even on a double-dog dare. Especially not an all-steel industrial cooling fan that could probably serve as the number two port wing engine on a DC-3 in a pinch. Those things have got torque, people. And forget ever getting your hair out of the manifold.
Second, I vowed to immediately cease and desist housing squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, or other small mammals in my britches. I think the article that inspired that idea may have been a parody. In any case, stitches are expensive (and in many cases embarrassing) and Mr. Chang down at the Super Plus Good One-Day Cleaners was very clear on the matter of more squirrels in his steam-press.
Finally, I have sworn to refrain from prank calling Luxembourg. They never quite caught on to the Prince Albert in a can joke anyway, and I never learned German or French, so most of the calls deteriorated into both sides speaking very loudly and very slowly with neither person ever comprehending what was said. Now that I think about it, that makes Luxembourg one of my best friends, so maybe I'll keep calling just for old times' sake.
So what did you, gentle reader, resolve to do differently in this shiny, hopeful new year?
Email me with your resolutions and I'll post the best and the strangest of them here in a few days.
In the meantime, BUY MY BOOKS! Please. I'm starving down here.
All the Paths of Shadow
The Broken Bell
First, I resolved to never stick my head in a fan again, even on a double-dog dare. Especially not an all-steel industrial cooling fan that could probably serve as the number two port wing engine on a DC-3 in a pinch. Those things have got torque, people. And forget ever getting your hair out of the manifold.
Second, I vowed to immediately cease and desist housing squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, or other small mammals in my britches. I think the article that inspired that idea may have been a parody. In any case, stitches are expensive (and in many cases embarrassing) and Mr. Chang down at the Super Plus Good One-Day Cleaners was very clear on the matter of more squirrels in his steam-press.
Finally, I have sworn to refrain from prank calling Luxembourg. They never quite caught on to the Prince Albert in a can joke anyway, and I never learned German or French, so most of the calls deteriorated into both sides speaking very loudly and very slowly with neither person ever comprehending what was said. Now that I think about it, that makes Luxembourg one of my best friends, so maybe I'll keep calling just for old times' sake.
So what did you, gentle reader, resolve to do differently in this shiny, hopeful new year?
Email me with your resolutions and I'll post the best and the strangest of them here in a few days.
In the meantime, BUY MY BOOKS! Please. I'm starving down here.
All the Paths of Shadow
The Broken Bell
January 1, 2012
2011: The Year That Was
Frakked.
If you're familiar with Battlestar Galactica (the recent remake, not that awful 80s thing), you know what 'frakked' means.
If you're not, well, frakked is a curse word, and it means exactly what you think it means.
And frakked is what 2011 was, at least to me. There's just not a better way to sum up that wretched, terrible year than with the most forbidden perjorative in the language.
2011 brought the Tuttle household many things, few of them pleasant. Terminal illness, first and foremost. The relentless inexorable decline of a loved one, who suffered horribly from a disease that can't even be treated, much less cured. The entire battery of our much-vaunted 21st century medicine couldn't do a thing; in the end, it was that old standby morphine that offered at least a little comfort. No hope, of course, but perhaps a few moments of peace.
I won't even go any further down the list. If I had to put a more polite label on 2011, I'd just call it the Year I Watched. Watched, and waited, because ultimately that was all any of us could do.
So yeah, color me a little bitter about 2011. Oh, I know there are chipper, smiling types out there who are just bursting with platitudes of the 'in every tragedy there is a lesson to be learned' variety, but I'm well past the age when I step in manure and immediately assume rainbow-hued unicorns are prancing nearby.
It's just manure. And it stinks.
But now, it's 2012. Surely the new year will bring with it fresh new changes...
What's that you say? Mayan prophecy? Armageddon, Doomsday, the End of the World, and you don't mean the song by REM?
Someone has been watching the History Channel.
Let me make a couple of things abundantly clear. Yes, the world, and by the world I mean us, is teetering on the brink of complete chaos. War or plague or climate change or any combination of calamity could effectively wipe us out next Tuesday, without warning. I agree with that.
What I don't agree with is that 2012 is any riskier than 2000 or 1958 or 1426. That state of chaos? The constant threats from above, from below, from within?
That's what we high school graduates call the human condition. We've added a few new threats in the last century -- nuclear war, designer viruses, global warming -- but the Doomsday List was already so long three more entries barely tilted the poor odds further against us significantly. It's as if Nature just shrugged and said 'Sure, I'll see your nuclear warheads, and raise you a supervolcano.'
In fact, the most significant feature of 2012 is the media frenzy surrounding its alleged status as the last year we'll ever put on a calendar.
First, that bit about the Mayan long count calendar. The Maya weren't asserting that time ends of December 21st, 2012, any more than we claim the world ends at midnight every December 31st. It doesn't. We just start again with a new calendar, maybe one with kittens or pastoral scenes of rural Ireland. Nothing ends, we just reset the counter.
Which is exactly what the Maya were doing, until a modern-day writer decided to sell a few million copies of his doomsday book by claiming a (then) little-known calendar created by a vanished people who hadn't even figured out the wheel foretold the end of days.
And it did sell a lot of books. Which is a far more compelling statement concerning the grisly curiosity of the public than it is evidence of any plausible bit of prophecy.
And then you've got your Nostradamus and your Mother Shipton and half a dozen other second-class prophets all claiming the end is nigh. I wish the programming guys at the History Channel would study a little history now and then. 'Mother Shipton' never existed, save as the figment of a cash-strapped author's surprisingly plentiful imagination. Nostradamus, as the Beatles sang, gets by with a little help from his friends, i.e., his translators, who are quite helpful when it comes to turning a phrase just so now and then.
Those quatrains are so flexible, in fact, that both the Axis and the Allies used them to predict their own inevitable victories during WWII. Nice how that worked out, huh?
So put me down as thoroughly unimpressed when confronted with the usual suspects in regard to prescience.
In fact, the whole prophecy bit is so easy I'll throw my own hat in the ring. Here, then, are my Prophetic Visions(tm) for the Year 2012:
1) A lot of people will get suddenly, horribly ganked by wars, the weather, illness, or the collapse of those enormous shelves at Home Depot.
2) The American political scene will descend even further into the arena of profound incompetence.
3) Bad, bad things will happen in places that end with the suffix '-stan.'
4) The rich will get richer, and the poor will get drunker, higher, and thinner.
5) Soda straws will see a collective 2% increase in flow efficiency.
There you have it. Science and commerce march on, and if they step over a few bodies on the way that's just the way we roll in 2012.
So be careful out there, folks. Watch your six. Never assume it's just the wind scratching at the windows, because it might be the Maya, wanting to say 'We told you so.'
Oh, and 2011?
Frak you.
If you're familiar with Battlestar Galactica (the recent remake, not that awful 80s thing), you know what 'frakked' means.
If you're not, well, frakked is a curse word, and it means exactly what you think it means.
And frakked is what 2011 was, at least to me. There's just not a better way to sum up that wretched, terrible year than with the most forbidden perjorative in the language.
2011 brought the Tuttle household many things, few of them pleasant. Terminal illness, first and foremost. The relentless inexorable decline of a loved one, who suffered horribly from a disease that can't even be treated, much less cured. The entire battery of our much-vaunted 21st century medicine couldn't do a thing; in the end, it was that old standby morphine that offered at least a little comfort. No hope, of course, but perhaps a few moments of peace.
I won't even go any further down the list. If I had to put a more polite label on 2011, I'd just call it the Year I Watched. Watched, and waited, because ultimately that was all any of us could do.
So yeah, color me a little bitter about 2011. Oh, I know there are chipper, smiling types out there who are just bursting with platitudes of the 'in every tragedy there is a lesson to be learned' variety, but I'm well past the age when I step in manure and immediately assume rainbow-hued unicorns are prancing nearby.
It's just manure. And it stinks.
But now, it's 2012. Surely the new year will bring with it fresh new changes...
What's that you say? Mayan prophecy? Armageddon, Doomsday, the End of the World, and you don't mean the song by REM?
Someone has been watching the History Channel.
Let me make a couple of things abundantly clear. Yes, the world, and by the world I mean us, is teetering on the brink of complete chaos. War or plague or climate change or any combination of calamity could effectively wipe us out next Tuesday, without warning. I agree with that.
What I don't agree with is that 2012 is any riskier than 2000 or 1958 or 1426. That state of chaos? The constant threats from above, from below, from within?
That's what we high school graduates call the human condition. We've added a few new threats in the last century -- nuclear war, designer viruses, global warming -- but the Doomsday List was already so long three more entries barely tilted the poor odds further against us significantly. It's as if Nature just shrugged and said 'Sure, I'll see your nuclear warheads, and raise you a supervolcano.'
In fact, the most significant feature of 2012 is the media frenzy surrounding its alleged status as the last year we'll ever put on a calendar.
First, that bit about the Mayan long count calendar. The Maya weren't asserting that time ends of December 21st, 2012, any more than we claim the world ends at midnight every December 31st. It doesn't. We just start again with a new calendar, maybe one with kittens or pastoral scenes of rural Ireland. Nothing ends, we just reset the counter.
Which is exactly what the Maya were doing, until a modern-day writer decided to sell a few million copies of his doomsday book by claiming a (then) little-known calendar created by a vanished people who hadn't even figured out the wheel foretold the end of days.
And it did sell a lot of books. Which is a far more compelling statement concerning the grisly curiosity of the public than it is evidence of any plausible bit of prophecy.
And then you've got your Nostradamus and your Mother Shipton and half a dozen other second-class prophets all claiming the end is nigh. I wish the programming guys at the History Channel would study a little history now and then. 'Mother Shipton' never existed, save as the figment of a cash-strapped author's surprisingly plentiful imagination. Nostradamus, as the Beatles sang, gets by with a little help from his friends, i.e., his translators, who are quite helpful when it comes to turning a phrase just so now and then.
Those quatrains are so flexible, in fact, that both the Axis and the Allies used them to predict their own inevitable victories during WWII. Nice how that worked out, huh?
So put me down as thoroughly unimpressed when confronted with the usual suspects in regard to prescience.
In fact, the whole prophecy bit is so easy I'll throw my own hat in the ring. Here, then, are my Prophetic Visions(tm) for the Year 2012:
1) A lot of people will get suddenly, horribly ganked by wars, the weather, illness, or the collapse of those enormous shelves at Home Depot.
2) The American political scene will descend even further into the arena of profound incompetence.
3) Bad, bad things will happen in places that end with the suffix '-stan.'
4) The rich will get richer, and the poor will get drunker, higher, and thinner.
5) Soda straws will see a collective 2% increase in flow efficiency.
There you have it. Science and commerce march on, and if they step over a few bodies on the way that's just the way we roll in 2012.
So be careful out there, folks. Watch your six. Never assume it's just the wind scratching at the windows, because it might be the Maya, wanting to say 'We told you so.'
Oh, and 2011?
Frak you.
December 29, 2011
Very Good Drugs
Lately, my various internal organs and sundry squishy bits have been the objects of keen interest by somber-faced physicians and the instruments of their curiosity.
I've had MRIs, CAT scans, blood panels, EKGs, electrocardiograms, and a host of other three-letter acronym tests that all seem to involve two things -- slight blood loss and large bills. With needles inserted into your arm, just to remind you who's boss when the bills come in.
Yesterday yet another camera was poked down my throat. I'm sure that action and the recent renewed interest in the location of missing Teamster Jimmy Hoffa's remains is mere coincidence. First, I never met the man, and second, I don't think anything that size would fit in my esophagus.
But they took another tissue sample, just to make sure, because you know how clever those Mob hit men can be.
I hope yesterday was the last time I need to have anything the length of a nine-iron shoved down my throat. Not that the people who did the deed weren't friendly and professional -- they were -- but enough is enough. I promise, guys, there's nothing that interesting going on in there.
As I was coming out of the anesthesia, I apparently told everyone that Sam Winchester left a glowing review on Amazon for The Broken Bell. That's not likely to happen, since Sam is a fictional character on the TV show Supernatural, but for drug-induced hallucinations that's actually a good hallucination to experience. It sure beats the one about the 300-pound toad with the bag of rattlesnakes and the taser.
Today I'm taking it easy, messing with my iPod, making ready for the arrival of the turntable, that sort of thing. But I do want to pass along a review of The Broken Bell, flagged just now courtesy of Google Alerts. Thanks, Naughty Bits, for the kind words!
Click here to read it.
I've had MRIs, CAT scans, blood panels, EKGs, electrocardiograms, and a host of other three-letter acronym tests that all seem to involve two things -- slight blood loss and large bills. With needles inserted into your arm, just to remind you who's boss when the bills come in.
Yesterday yet another camera was poked down my throat. I'm sure that action and the recent renewed interest in the location of missing Teamster Jimmy Hoffa's remains is mere coincidence. First, I never met the man, and second, I don't think anything that size would fit in my esophagus.
But they took another tissue sample, just to make sure, because you know how clever those Mob hit men can be.
I hope yesterday was the last time I need to have anything the length of a nine-iron shoved down my throat. Not that the people who did the deed weren't friendly and professional -- they were -- but enough is enough. I promise, guys, there's nothing that interesting going on in there.
As I was coming out of the anesthesia, I apparently told everyone that Sam Winchester left a glowing review on Amazon for The Broken Bell. That's not likely to happen, since Sam is a fictional character on the TV show Supernatural, but for drug-induced hallucinations that's actually a good hallucination to experience. It sure beats the one about the 300-pound toad with the bag of rattlesnakes and the taser.
Today I'm taking it easy, messing with my iPod, making ready for the arrival of the turntable, that sort of thing. But I do want to pass along a review of The Broken Bell, flagged just now courtesy of Google Alerts. Thanks, Naughty Bits, for the kind words!
Click here to read it.
December 27, 2011
The Waiting Game
Whew.
Well, the new book The Broken Bell is out. The Big Three sites (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Samhain) are all selling copies hand over fist. My Amazon sales rank is holding steady around 16K, which is pretty good for a new book's first day when you're not a household name like King or Koontz.
Now, a seasoned pro in this business would just glance at the various bookseller webpages to make sure everything was running smoothly and get on with the business of writing the next book. Because really, at this point, the book is going to stand or fall on its own, and there's not much I can do to promote it without making a colossal nuisance of myself. There are only so many ways and so many times I can wave the 'Buy my book!' sign in your face before you get understandably weary of seeing it.
Maybe one day I'll be that seasoned pro, but it sure wasn't today.
If there's a tech on duty at Amazon's Network Operations Center, he's probably looking at my IP address and shaking his head, because I've been refreshing my Amazon sales page for The Broken Bell all day long.
Take a look for yourself. Click here, then scroll down to the bit that says Amazon Best Sellers Rank under Product Details.
Right now I'm at #16,334 Paid in the Amazon Store. Which isn't too bad, since it means that only 16,333 items in the entire vast Amazon inventory are selling faster than my book right now. And since Amazon sells everything from ant farms to zithers, I'm happy with that. I'll be happier when it drops even lower, but for now, I'm good.
But Frank, you ask, what does that Amazon rank number translate to in terms of actual sales?
Well, I'm glad you asked. Amazon has steadfastly refused to divulge the specifics of their ranking mathematics, but after my 18th cup of strong black coffee I had a revelation (or perhaps a small cerebral event, same thing) and figured it all out. Here's how Amazon determines ranks:
Rank = (All the money in the world) times (the number of Jeff Bezos' servers at breakfast) times (the number of self-published vampire romances with the words blood passion in the title) divided by (the combined numeric weight, in kilograms, of all the tears shed at Barnes & Noble when the Fire was released) plus (Planck's Constant, because Wikipedia said so).
Yes. Yes, it's all perfectly clear now!
Running the numbers -- carry the two, find a common denominator, figure in a seven MPH wind drift, subtract the Battle of Hastings -- aha.
I have sold exactly blue copies of The Broken Bell, with an accuracy of plus or minus ducks.
Um. Okay, maybe that needs work.
But I'll have to do it later. Right now I must get back to my refresh button...
The Broken Bell on Amazon
The Broken Bell on B & N
All the Paths of Shadow on Amazon
December 26, 2011
THE BROKEN BELL released Tuesday, December 27
It's very nearly December 27, and that can mean only one thing...
Yes, yes, all right, that means it's nearly Tuesday. That's not what I'm referring to. And yes, December 27 also marks the last air date of the Carol Burnett Show on CBS, but again, that's not what I mean.
My new book The Broken Bell hits the stands tomorrow, bright and early, at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Samhain Publishing. This is the sixth entry in the Markhat series, and it's the longest and I think the best yet.
What's The Broken Bell about, you ask?
Well, without giving too much away, I'll say this -- it's about love and hope and fear and loss. There will be war, and rumors of war. Grooms will vanish, leaving empty altars and determined brides behind. Dark sorceries will arise. Mama Hog will grumble and stomp. A blood-feud will spill out of quaint, far-off Pot Lockney and come tramping right to Markhat's door.
And through it all, Markhat will muddle ahead, through murder, mayhem, and magic, if need be.
And need will be. I broke Rannit's peace in this one, boys and girls. Things will never be same.
To all my Markhat fans, this new one is for all of you. To anyone who hasn't read any of the series and who's understandably hesitant to dive in, well, why not check out something shorter first, just see if you like the tone and flavor of the thing? The Cadaver Client is short and a lot of fun, and it's only a couple of bucks (that was the Kindle version; here's one for your Nook).
Still not convinced? Fine. Here's the first couple of pages, with helpful links at the bottom, because I'm nothing if not helpful, especially where your money is concerned.
THE BROKEN BELL
Babysitting banshees is anerve-wracking business.And after a morning withButtercup, my nerves were not only wracked but wrecked and possibly wreaked aswell.Buttercup is all of four feettall. She weighs forty pounds soaking wet with a big rock in each hand. Anddespite what you've heard about banshees, there isn't a mean bone in her tinybody.But that doesn't mean she doesn'tenjoy a bit of old-fashioned banshee mischief when Mama Hog and Gertriss areaway and there's no one but Uncle Markhat to play with.Buttercup's favorite game is tomake that banshee hop-step that transports her from place to place without thetrouble and fuss of walking through the space between her and, for instance,the top of my desk.Hop, appear, giggle, hop. Fromdesktop to floor and back again, all in the space of a blink, with my goodblack hat clutched in her tiny banshee hands."That's my good hat, sweetie." Iput on my most winning talking-to-the-kids smile. Darla claims it looks morelike a grimace, as though someone was stepping on my toes, but it's the best Ican do. "Let's find something else to play with."Hop blur, hop blur. She went fromfloor to desktop, vanished, poked me in the small of my back and was gone whenI turned.Shoes came tap-tap-tapping rightup to my door. Not men's shoes, but female ones.They stopped. The lady knocked.No hesitation, no furtiveness.Buttercup appeared at my side.She put my hat in my hand and clung to my leg with what I fervently hoped waspurely platonic fervor.She might be tiny, and she mightbe a thousand years old, but I'm very nearly a married man, I'm told."In the back. Get under thecovers. Don't make a sound 'til I come get you."Buttercup doesn't speak muchKingdom, but she understands it well enough. She nodded once and was gone. Iheard my bedsprings squeak through the door Buttercup hadn't bothered to open.I put my hat on the rack—rightabove the new tan raincoat Darla had left there the day before.Funny. The hat was a gift fromDarla too. I wondered how long it would be before my entire wardrobe was theproduct of Darla's keen eye for my clothes.The lady at my door knockedagain. Three-leg Cat rose, arched his back and yawned silently beforesauntering toward the door, eager to slip outside.I forced a smile and obliged catand woman.Darla stood at my door, grinning.Three-leg dashed between her ankles, circling her once and issuing a rough loudpurr before darting away at a three-legged gallop. "Mama swears you've never risen before noon."Darla's brown eyes glinted. She was wearing something high-necked and purple,and the one hand I could see was wearing a silk glove. "Are you sure you'redecent at this unholy hour?"I made a show of looking at myelegantly rumpled attire. "I seem to be clothed, though by whom I don't recall.Do come in, Miss Tomas. And bring that picnic basket with you."Darla glided in, and the heavenlysmells that wafted up from the basket she carried came with her.The basket wound up on my deskwhile we greeted each other. Clever devil that I am, I managed to snag a stickybun from the basket and bring it up and around Darla so that I had a bite readywhen we finished the good morning kiss.Darla turned and laughed and tooka bite and then we sat.I chewed and swallowed. The bunwas hot and sweet and perfectly baked.I took another bite and lifted aneyebrow."So, what brings you out with thewagons, Darla dearest?" I asked. "It's so early the vampires haven't taken totheir crypts yet."One of the many things I likeabout Darla is her utter lack of pretense."I'm here to ply you withpastries and my feminine wiles. I want to hire you, Mister Markhat. I want youto find someone for me."I choked down my sticky bun. Allthe play was gone from her eyes, all the mirth from her voice. She had herhands in her lap and she was not smiling. I'd only seen her do this oncebefore."Tell me."
Hooked yet? Desperate to know what happens next? Have five bucks on ya?
Then get thee to the links below, gentle reader, and welcome to Rannit!
The Broken Bell, for the Nook
The Broken Bell, for the Kindle
The Broken Bell, any other format
One last thing -- if you get the book, and you like it, please consider leaving a review with Amazon, B&N, or Samhain. We authors live or die by word of mouth, and living is considerably more fun than dying.
Thanks!
Yes, yes, all right, that means it's nearly Tuesday. That's not what I'm referring to. And yes, December 27 also marks the last air date of the Carol Burnett Show on CBS, but again, that's not what I mean.
My new book The Broken Bell hits the stands tomorrow, bright and early, at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Samhain Publishing. This is the sixth entry in the Markhat series, and it's the longest and I think the best yet.
What's The Broken Bell about, you ask?
Well, without giving too much away, I'll say this -- it's about love and hope and fear and loss. There will be war, and rumors of war. Grooms will vanish, leaving empty altars and determined brides behind. Dark sorceries will arise. Mama Hog will grumble and stomp. A blood-feud will spill out of quaint, far-off Pot Lockney and come tramping right to Markhat's door.
And through it all, Markhat will muddle ahead, through murder, mayhem, and magic, if need be.
And need will be. I broke Rannit's peace in this one, boys and girls. Things will never be same.
To all my Markhat fans, this new one is for all of you. To anyone who hasn't read any of the series and who's understandably hesitant to dive in, well, why not check out something shorter first, just see if you like the tone and flavor of the thing? The Cadaver Client is short and a lot of fun, and it's only a couple of bucks (that was the Kindle version; here's one for your Nook).
Still not convinced? Fine. Here's the first couple of pages, with helpful links at the bottom, because I'm nothing if not helpful, especially where your money is concerned.
THE BROKEN BELL
Babysitting banshees is anerve-wracking business.And after a morning withButtercup, my nerves were not only wracked but wrecked and possibly wreaked aswell.Buttercup is all of four feettall. She weighs forty pounds soaking wet with a big rock in each hand. Anddespite what you've heard about banshees, there isn't a mean bone in her tinybody.But that doesn't mean she doesn'tenjoy a bit of old-fashioned banshee mischief when Mama Hog and Gertriss areaway and there's no one but Uncle Markhat to play with.Buttercup's favorite game is tomake that banshee hop-step that transports her from place to place without thetrouble and fuss of walking through the space between her and, for instance,the top of my desk.Hop, appear, giggle, hop. Fromdesktop to floor and back again, all in the space of a blink, with my goodblack hat clutched in her tiny banshee hands."That's my good hat, sweetie." Iput on my most winning talking-to-the-kids smile. Darla claims it looks morelike a grimace, as though someone was stepping on my toes, but it's the best Ican do. "Let's find something else to play with."Hop blur, hop blur. She went fromfloor to desktop, vanished, poked me in the small of my back and was gone whenI turned.Shoes came tap-tap-tapping rightup to my door. Not men's shoes, but female ones.They stopped. The lady knocked.No hesitation, no furtiveness.Buttercup appeared at my side.She put my hat in my hand and clung to my leg with what I fervently hoped waspurely platonic fervor.She might be tiny, and she mightbe a thousand years old, but I'm very nearly a married man, I'm told."In the back. Get under thecovers. Don't make a sound 'til I come get you."Buttercup doesn't speak muchKingdom, but she understands it well enough. She nodded once and was gone. Iheard my bedsprings squeak through the door Buttercup hadn't bothered to open.I put my hat on the rack—rightabove the new tan raincoat Darla had left there the day before.Funny. The hat was a gift fromDarla too. I wondered how long it would be before my entire wardrobe was theproduct of Darla's keen eye for my clothes.The lady at my door knockedagain. Three-leg Cat rose, arched his back and yawned silently beforesauntering toward the door, eager to slip outside.I forced a smile and obliged catand woman.Darla stood at my door, grinning.Three-leg dashed between her ankles, circling her once and issuing a rough loudpurr before darting away at a three-legged gallop. "Mama swears you've never risen before noon."Darla's brown eyes glinted. She was wearing something high-necked and purple,and the one hand I could see was wearing a silk glove. "Are you sure you'redecent at this unholy hour?"I made a show of looking at myelegantly rumpled attire. "I seem to be clothed, though by whom I don't recall.Do come in, Miss Tomas. And bring that picnic basket with you."Darla glided in, and the heavenlysmells that wafted up from the basket she carried came with her.The basket wound up on my deskwhile we greeted each other. Clever devil that I am, I managed to snag a stickybun from the basket and bring it up and around Darla so that I had a bite readywhen we finished the good morning kiss.Darla turned and laughed and tooka bite and then we sat.I chewed and swallowed. The bunwas hot and sweet and perfectly baked.I took another bite and lifted aneyebrow."So, what brings you out with thewagons, Darla dearest?" I asked. "It's so early the vampires haven't taken totheir crypts yet."One of the many things I likeabout Darla is her utter lack of pretense."I'm here to ply you withpastries and my feminine wiles. I want to hire you, Mister Markhat. I want youto find someone for me."I choked down my sticky bun. Allthe play was gone from her eyes, all the mirth from her voice. She had herhands in her lap and she was not smiling. I'd only seen her do this oncebefore."Tell me."
Hooked yet? Desperate to know what happens next? Have five bucks on ya?
Then get thee to the links below, gentle reader, and welcome to Rannit!
The Broken Bell, for the Nook
The Broken Bell, for the Kindle
The Broken Bell, any other format
One last thing -- if you get the book, and you like it, please consider leaving a review with Amazon, B&N, or Samhain. We authors live or die by word of mouth, and living is considerably more fun than dying.
Thanks!
December 23, 2011
Countdown: Four Days For New Markhat!
Four days, boy and girls.
That's the only thing standing, metaphorically speaking of course, between you and the new Markhat book, The Broken Bell. The release date for all e-book formats is December 27; you can of course pre-order right now, if you so desire, and the book will be delivered with ruthless internet efficiency directly to your reading device of choice the moment it is released.
Here are some links you might follow, based on your preference of format:
Amazon, for your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle reading app:
The Broken Bell
Barnes&Noble, for your Nook or Nook reading app:
The Broken Bell
Samhain Publishing, for any format, any reader:
The Broken Bell
Hey, is this a series? If so, where do I start?
Frank's FAQ page!
As you can see, we aim to please, no matter what device you use for your reading. Anyone who prefers printed books may have to wait a bit longer, but as soon as I have a print release date I'll pass that information along to you right here in the blog.
If you're new around here, you may well be asking yourself two questions -- first, why did this guy's blog pop up instead of Fark, and second, who is this Markhat character, and why should I care?
My blog popped up because I pay a hacker who calls himself N3XOS to create random redirects. Markhat is my wise-cracking fantasy detective. And that's three questions, not two, but you should care because I need the measly five bucks The Broken Bell will set you back.
The thumbnail sketch?
Markhat lives and works in Rannit, the largest city of the old Kingdom to survive the War more or less intact. You've heard the term 'mean streets' used so often in the detective genre it's become cliche. Well, Rannit's best streets are not just mean, but downright psychopathic, even the ones sporting new sidewalks and cheery freshly-painted mansions.
Oh, there are laws in Rannit, and on paper they apply to rich and poor with equal weight. In reality, though, justice is available only to those who can afford it.
For everyone else, there is Markhat the finder.
For a modest fee, Markhat will find missing daughters, vanished sons, errant husbands, or straying wives. Markhat makes his living rooting out the sad truth behind the most well-meaning of lies.
Most of what Markhat finds, of course, is trouble.
There are now six books in the Markhat series. The Broken Bell brings the whole crew back together, for a single moment that will change them all forever.
For fans of the series, I'll throw out this tidbit. Mama Hog winds up face-to-snaggletoothed-face with a furious sorcerer bent on her messy demise. This annoys Mama. Angers her, even.
I had a lot of fun writing that scene. I think you'll have a lot of fun reading it.
So scroll back up to the links above and grab a copy of your own. Or, if you're new to the series, head on over to my webpage and click books and visit Rannit for a bit. I suggest either Dead Man's Rain or The Cadaver Client. Both are short enough and cheap enough to give you a feel for the series, and if it's not your cup of arsenic-laced tea then you're not out a fortune.
I hope you enjoy the books!
That's the only thing standing, metaphorically speaking of course, between you and the new Markhat book, The Broken Bell. The release date for all e-book formats is December 27; you can of course pre-order right now, if you so desire, and the book will be delivered with ruthless internet efficiency directly to your reading device of choice the moment it is released.
Here are some links you might follow, based on your preference of format:
Amazon, for your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle reading app:
The Broken Bell
Barnes&Noble, for your Nook or Nook reading app:
The Broken Bell
Samhain Publishing, for any format, any reader:
The Broken Bell
Hey, is this a series? If so, where do I start?
Frank's FAQ page!
As you can see, we aim to please, no matter what device you use for your reading. Anyone who prefers printed books may have to wait a bit longer, but as soon as I have a print release date I'll pass that information along to you right here in the blog.
If you're new around here, you may well be asking yourself two questions -- first, why did this guy's blog pop up instead of Fark, and second, who is this Markhat character, and why should I care?
My blog popped up because I pay a hacker who calls himself N3XOS to create random redirects. Markhat is my wise-cracking fantasy detective. And that's three questions, not two, but you should care because I need the measly five bucks The Broken Bell will set you back.
The thumbnail sketch?
Markhat lives and works in Rannit, the largest city of the old Kingdom to survive the War more or less intact. You've heard the term 'mean streets' used so often in the detective genre it's become cliche. Well, Rannit's best streets are not just mean, but downright psychopathic, even the ones sporting new sidewalks and cheery freshly-painted mansions.
Oh, there are laws in Rannit, and on paper they apply to rich and poor with equal weight. In reality, though, justice is available only to those who can afford it.
For everyone else, there is Markhat the finder.
For a modest fee, Markhat will find missing daughters, vanished sons, errant husbands, or straying wives. Markhat makes his living rooting out the sad truth behind the most well-meaning of lies.
Most of what Markhat finds, of course, is trouble.
There are now six books in the Markhat series. The Broken Bell brings the whole crew back together, for a single moment that will change them all forever.
For fans of the series, I'll throw out this tidbit. Mama Hog winds up face-to-snaggletoothed-face with a furious sorcerer bent on her messy demise. This annoys Mama. Angers her, even.
I had a lot of fun writing that scene. I think you'll have a lot of fun reading it.
So scroll back up to the links above and grab a copy of your own. Or, if you're new to the series, head on over to my webpage and click books and visit Rannit for a bit. I suggest either Dead Man's Rain or The Cadaver Client. Both are short enough and cheap enough to give you a feel for the series, and if it's not your cup of arsenic-laced tea then you're not out a fortune.
I hope you enjoy the books!
December 11, 2011
DIY Fantasy Art
Sometimes I wish I wrote Westerns or straight-up 1930s detective film noir mysteries or even spy thrillers. Say I wrote Westerns, for instance. Then I could hang pictures of horses on the walls and leave a saddle casually draped over the back of a rocking chair and even hang a ten-gallon hat on a peg by the door, and I think all that would help set a mood for writing.
But I write fantasy. Now, don't get me wrong, there is some fantastic fantasy art out there. I know, because I own a lot of it. And I love it. My study walls are covered with dragons and elves and swords, and that's just the way I like it.
Even so, it's always seemed to me that it's harder to decorate your writing place if you tend more toward Tolkien than Tolstoy. So much so, in fact, that I've taken to making my own art, based on some of the devices and items in my tales.
Which brings us to tonight's photo session, in which I subject -- er, treat -- you to a couple of things I made when I was, for one reason or another, unable to write.
These are wands, because wands are to a fantasy author what Colt revolvers are to the guy who writes Westerns. Now, I know the image invoked by the word 'wand' is usually a more or less straight piece of wood, with maybe a few details carved into it.
Not so in my imaginings, though. Look, if anyone could grab the nearest stick and start working magic just by waving it around and saying "Abracadabra!" you'd have a few millions Dark Lords strolling around any given tract of land.
So I've always imagined that the wands and other implements in my stories are complex, finely-crafted instruments that took hundreds of hours of intense effort just to shape. Too, I seldom assign my characters one-wand-does all type instruments -- no, if they want to generate heat, they'll need a special wand for that, which won't be the same wand they'll use to stir the wind or call down a few thousand foul-tempered fruit bats.
Even the magic in Markhat's world requires a lot of time and effort, which is the main reason common folk have little or nothing to do with it. The only piece of magic Markhat routinely carries is his old Army flash-papers, which are just what they sound like. It's a piece of (by now) ratty paper, inscribed with a hex symbol. If he tears it in half, and the hex is still active after all these years, he'll release a brief flash of extremely bright light. That's it. He can't ever use it again, and the paper burns itself up when the simple spell is activated. It's not going to reduce whole armies to ashes or knock down city walls.
The magic in Meralda's world is a little more accessible. I won't say too much about it here, but readers will recognize that her magic behaves much like our electricity. It can be grounded out. It can be stored in devices rather like batteries. It generates (or absorbs) heat when it is manipulated.
But enough blathering, let's look at the wands!
First up is a smallish hand-held wand carved from a nice blond oak.
It's about a foot long (that's nine hundred and eighty seven thousand meters for my Metric friends). I think I did most of the actual carving in a couple of afternoons; sanding it took much longer. Both sides look the same.
This is the kind of wand I picture Meralda carrying, or leaving lying on her work-table. And yes, in the long-established cinematic tradition of this world, it glows a brilliant blue at the end when it's in use.
Here's a closer shot of it. The symbols carved into have deep mystical meanings, or they just sort of wound up that way, I'll leave that determination up to you.
This wand lives on a pair of hooks that hang it out in front of three mystical runes, which together spell out the eldritch phrase "I'd really like a sandwich now." I like this wand, and I use it mostly to deter Balrogs and, though I probably shouldn't, heat marshmallows.
Next up we have a wand in a box! With a carved sigil on the lid, to wit:
Is that a dragon? Um, yes, as the runes in the body clearly spell out 'dragon.' Do they really?
Um, sure. Anyway. Check out the box, which I also made. It's oak, and even the hinges are handmade wood. I was really proud of those hinges...
As you know, having metal around certain wands is dangerous :)
Now let's open it up, and check out the wand!
Yep, more runes. These spell out the usual arcane disclaimers -- not responsible for intentional misuse, do not expose to oscillating thaumic aether fields, yada yada yada.
And here's the wand itself, which was carved from pecan ...
Pretty nice! That's a pure copper sphere in the handle, with copper leads spiraling down into the wand. I drilled and twisted and mounted all that while listening to Pink Floyd while a thunderstorm raged outside.
This is the sort of wand I picture the Corpsemaster from Markhat's world carrying. Or even Meralda, if she'd had a very bad day and someone insulted her hair. I can see her whipping this out and dealing a little mayhem in that instance.
So that's the sort of things fantasy authors get up to in order to avoid work, i.e., the writing of new fantasy novels.
My next project will probably have a more steampunk bent. I may reproduce, using simple materials, a radio Meralda is even now trying to perfect as part of the next book. That would be fun...yes, FUN...
PS: If you just read this and you have no idea who Markhat or Meralda are, well, they're characters in my books. Here's a link that will take you to all of them!
December 8, 2011
Gift Ideas for Writers
Is there a writer in your life, and are you struggling to come up with that perfect Christmas gift for him or her?
If the first part of the sentence above is true, my condolences, because I'm a writer and I know full well what a morose bunch of budding alcoholics we writers usually are. I'm constantly staring off into space, oblivious to the world around me until the front bumper strikes something solid and the air bags deploy.
That can't be good company. I know from experience that the Highway Patrol is seldom thrilled.
Every year, it's the same dilemma. What to give for Christmas? What will make your writer's eyes light up, or at least open halfway?
As usual, I'm here to help. My list of suggestions follows, in order of descending utility.
1) BOOZE. HOOCH. ROTGUT. That's right, kids, the Demon Rum himself. Why? Simple.
A writer's job is to plumb the depths of the human condition, or at least convince a harried editor that he or she is plumbing said depths long enough for the ink to dry on a contract. And the first thing you'll learn when you start taking a really close look at the much-vaunted human condition is that doing so induces a sudden, powerful urge to have a drink. Or three. Or maybe just leave the whole bottle and start running a tab, because right after the urge to drink comes the realization that it's going to be a long bad night.
2) A THESAURUS. Because nothing works better as a coaster for the drinks mentioned above than a really thick book. I'd counsel against actually using a thesaurus for writing, because no one wants to read sentences in which characters advance, meander, promenade, traipse, or wend one's way across the room.
3) A CAT. Hemingway had a cat, right? He had a cat because aside from certain molds and rare fungi, a cat is probably the only creature on Earth which is more vain and self-centered than the average author. While other more social creatures might feel neglected or ignored by an author, who is probably staring off into space or rummaging in the cabinets for more liquor, a cat is perfectly comfortable being ignored because it doesn't know anyone else is in the room anyway. The cat's 'I don't care if you exist or not' attitude is perfectly suited to the author's mindset of 'What? Huh? Who?'
4) AN ELEGANT LEATHER-BOUND JOURNAL. We all know that writers, and I mean serious professional writers with book contracts and everything, are always prepared to whip out a convincing character or a heart-wrenching plot at the drop of a dangling participle. So give your author the most expensive, ornate leather journal you can find, wait a year, drag it out from under the whiskey-stained thesaurus, and give it to the writer again. They won't ever know, because each and every page will be as blank as it was the day you bought it. Seriously, people. I tried the whole notebook by the bed schtick for years, and I recorded exactly two notes in it, which read:
"Char. A sees the thing, intro. other scene w/char B, str. exc. Plot hole & 9 days."
"Why G. not cld/not E?"
Which explains why Hemingway's cat had six toes, for all I know. But leatherbound notebooks make pretty good coasters too, and if the glasses sweat on them, you can tell people the stains are from a solo hike through Guatemala which you took to 'reconnect to my muse.'
I don't have a Number 5. You should probably stop at Number 1, because gift-wrapping a cat is nearly impossible and writers can spot a gift wrapped thesaurus from across a crowded room anyway.
If the first part of the sentence above is true, my condolences, because I'm a writer and I know full well what a morose bunch of budding alcoholics we writers usually are. I'm constantly staring off into space, oblivious to the world around me until the front bumper strikes something solid and the air bags deploy.
That can't be good company. I know from experience that the Highway Patrol is seldom thrilled.
Every year, it's the same dilemma. What to give for Christmas? What will make your writer's eyes light up, or at least open halfway?
As usual, I'm here to help. My list of suggestions follows, in order of descending utility.
1) BOOZE. HOOCH. ROTGUT. That's right, kids, the Demon Rum himself. Why? Simple.
A writer's job is to plumb the depths of the human condition, or at least convince a harried editor that he or she is plumbing said depths long enough for the ink to dry on a contract. And the first thing you'll learn when you start taking a really close look at the much-vaunted human condition is that doing so induces a sudden, powerful urge to have a drink. Or three. Or maybe just leave the whole bottle and start running a tab, because right after the urge to drink comes the realization that it's going to be a long bad night.
2) A THESAURUS. Because nothing works better as a coaster for the drinks mentioned above than a really thick book. I'd counsel against actually using a thesaurus for writing, because no one wants to read sentences in which characters advance, meander, promenade, traipse, or wend one's way across the room.
3) A CAT. Hemingway had a cat, right? He had a cat because aside from certain molds and rare fungi, a cat is probably the only creature on Earth which is more vain and self-centered than the average author. While other more social creatures might feel neglected or ignored by an author, who is probably staring off into space or rummaging in the cabinets for more liquor, a cat is perfectly comfortable being ignored because it doesn't know anyone else is in the room anyway. The cat's 'I don't care if you exist or not' attitude is perfectly suited to the author's mindset of 'What? Huh? Who?'
4) AN ELEGANT LEATHER-BOUND JOURNAL. We all know that writers, and I mean serious professional writers with book contracts and everything, are always prepared to whip out a convincing character or a heart-wrenching plot at the drop of a dangling participle. So give your author the most expensive, ornate leather journal you can find, wait a year, drag it out from under the whiskey-stained thesaurus, and give it to the writer again. They won't ever know, because each and every page will be as blank as it was the day you bought it. Seriously, people. I tried the whole notebook by the bed schtick for years, and I recorded exactly two notes in it, which read:
"Char. A sees the thing, intro. other scene w/char B, str. exc. Plot hole & 9 days."
"Why G. not cld/not E?"
Which explains why Hemingway's cat had six toes, for all I know. But leatherbound notebooks make pretty good coasters too, and if the glasses sweat on them, you can tell people the stains are from a solo hike through Guatemala which you took to 'reconnect to my muse.'
I don't have a Number 5. You should probably stop at Number 1, because gift-wrapping a cat is nearly impossible and writers can spot a gift wrapped thesaurus from across a crowded room anyway.
December 5, 2011
Monday, Monday
Well, it's been days since I've been insulted by an employee of Square Books. I thought about wandering inside the store today, just to see if the smirking hipster clerks would gather behind the checkout counter before launching a barrage of heavy thesauri toward me.
But it was raining, and frankly the smell of that patchouli-scented body wash they favor can be a bit cloying in close quarters. So I oped for walking indoors, instead.
Yes, I'm still steamed about that incident. In retrospect, I think I should have raised my voice and made a scene. At least I wouldn't still be stewing over a completely erroneous statement made by some empty-headed punk only minutes out of high school.
But enough about them. I shall put aside my ire, yea, I shall bury it deep. A plague of pimples upon them (hey, that part is working already).
The Broken Bell hits the shelves in just 22 days! Markhat fans, if you haven't pre-ordered, you can do so from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Samhain Publishing. I really think you'll enjoy this new outing with Markhat and the crew from Rannit. I'm still chuckling over one part in particular, and though I won't toss out spoilers concerning my own yet-to-be-released book, I will say that Mama Hog is in rare form this time around.
And please don't forget All the Paths of Shadow! You can get this in glorious print, if you want, in addition to every e-book format imaginable. Books make great Christmas presents, ya know -- so if there's a kid on your list, or an adult for that matter, consider a copy of All the Paths of Shadow.
Okay, time for me to get back to work. And don't you have some shopping to do? That's a subliminal hint, you know....
But it was raining, and frankly the smell of that patchouli-scented body wash they favor can be a bit cloying in close quarters. So I oped for walking indoors, instead.
Yes, I'm still steamed about that incident. In retrospect, I think I should have raised my voice and made a scene. At least I wouldn't still be stewing over a completely erroneous statement made by some empty-headed punk only minutes out of high school.
But enough about them. I shall put aside my ire, yea, I shall bury it deep. A plague of pimples upon them (hey, that part is working already).
The Broken Bell hits the shelves in just 22 days! Markhat fans, if you haven't pre-ordered, you can do so from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Samhain Publishing. I really think you'll enjoy this new outing with Markhat and the crew from Rannit. I'm still chuckling over one part in particular, and though I won't toss out spoilers concerning my own yet-to-be-released book, I will say that Mama Hog is in rare form this time around.
And please don't forget All the Paths of Shadow! You can get this in glorious print, if you want, in addition to every e-book format imaginable. Books make great Christmas presents, ya know -- so if there's a kid on your list, or an adult for that matter, consider a copy of All the Paths of Shadow.
Okay, time for me to get back to work. And don't you have some shopping to do? That's a subliminal hint, you know....
December 2, 2011
I am NOT Self-Published
Blogging while angry is never a good idea.
So I've had my relaxing hot beverage and I've taken the requisite ten deep breaths and I've repeated my Mantra of Peace (Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry) once for every eye-poke in 'Disorder in the Court.'
Hey, you have your rituals, and I have mine. Anyway.
Karen and I stopped in a certain bookstore during our lunch walk to see if they'd stocked All the Paths of Shadow yet. After all, they are a bookstore. All the Paths of Shadow is a book. I'm a local author, and I've seen this very bookstore promote local authors.
We looked. They did have a copy of The Markhat Files, another of my titles. But still no copy of Paths of Shadow.
The helpful young man approached and asked if he could help us find anything. Karen asked if they had any copies of All the Paths of Shadow. The helpful young man tapped on his helpful computer for a moment before announcing that he couldn't get All the Paths of Shadow unless the author brought him copies, since that was a self-published title.
A self-published title. That will certainly come as a bit of a shock to the people at Cool Well Press, who up until this very moment have been blissfully unaware that I own their publishing company. After all, if I self-publish, and I publish through Cool Well Press, that means I own it, right?
Which means I want all those desk chairs. And the PCs. Bwahaha, mine, all mine!
Let me point out a couple of small errors in the helpful young man's statements.
All the Paths of Shadow is NOT a self-published title. Cool Well Press pays its authors. I've never sent them a dime and they've certainly never asked for one. Yes, Cool Well Press is a small relatively new press. That makes it a small relatively new press, not a vanity house.
This was pointed out to the helpful young man, who shrugged and repeated his assertion that, even so, they would only deign to carry my book if I A) brought them free physical copies and B) paid for the shelf space.
In my opinion, that makes this bookstore a tad sleazy. After all, isn't that the same tactic vanity houses employ? Asking the author to pay?
I won't be giving them any free books. I won't be paying them a cent for their precious shelf space. They don't want me on their hallowed shelves, fine. I'm not a huge fan of pretentious douchebags anyway.
But I do object to their toboggan-wearing sales clerks giving out false information. I wonder how many of my friends and neighbors in this small town have gone into the store, asked for my books, and been told the same thing?
So, local bookstore owners, if you want to dismiss me as a genre hack, be my guest. Your lack of support won't wreck me. I won't trouble you again. Ever.
But do not persist in telling the buying public Frank Tuttle is a vanity house victim. It's untrue, it's unnecessary, and worst of all it's thoroughly unprofessional.
Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry...
So I've had my relaxing hot beverage and I've taken the requisite ten deep breaths and I've repeated my Mantra of Peace (Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry) once for every eye-poke in 'Disorder in the Court.'
Hey, you have your rituals, and I have mine. Anyway.
Karen and I stopped in a certain bookstore during our lunch walk to see if they'd stocked All the Paths of Shadow yet. After all, they are a bookstore. All the Paths of Shadow is a book. I'm a local author, and I've seen this very bookstore promote local authors.
We looked. They did have a copy of The Markhat Files, another of my titles. But still no copy of Paths of Shadow.
The helpful young man approached and asked if he could help us find anything. Karen asked if they had any copies of All the Paths of Shadow. The helpful young man tapped on his helpful computer for a moment before announcing that he couldn't get All the Paths of Shadow unless the author brought him copies, since that was a self-published title.
A self-published title. That will certainly come as a bit of a shock to the people at Cool Well Press, who up until this very moment have been blissfully unaware that I own their publishing company. After all, if I self-publish, and I publish through Cool Well Press, that means I own it, right?
Which means I want all those desk chairs. And the PCs. Bwahaha, mine, all mine!
Let me point out a couple of small errors in the helpful young man's statements.
All the Paths of Shadow is NOT a self-published title. Cool Well Press pays its authors. I've never sent them a dime and they've certainly never asked for one. Yes, Cool Well Press is a small relatively new press. That makes it a small relatively new press, not a vanity house.
This was pointed out to the helpful young man, who shrugged and repeated his assertion that, even so, they would only deign to carry my book if I A) brought them free physical copies and B) paid for the shelf space.
In my opinion, that makes this bookstore a tad sleazy. After all, isn't that the same tactic vanity houses employ? Asking the author to pay?
I won't be giving them any free books. I won't be paying them a cent for their precious shelf space. They don't want me on their hallowed shelves, fine. I'm not a huge fan of pretentious douchebags anyway.
But I do object to their toboggan-wearing sales clerks giving out false information. I wonder how many of my friends and neighbors in this small town have gone into the store, asked for my books, and been told the same thing?
So, local bookstore owners, if you want to dismiss me as a genre hack, be my guest. Your lack of support won't wreck me. I won't trouble you again. Ever.
But do not persist in telling the buying public Frank Tuttle is a vanity house victim. It's untrue, it's unnecessary, and worst of all it's thoroughly unprofessional.
Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Larry Moe, Larry Larry...
